


Pius Amor

by carlythegreat



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:13:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlythegreat/pseuds/carlythegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras felt the sun rise over the streets of Paris, and into their bedroom when he began to rise to consciousness. </p><p>“It’s early.”</p><p>“You’re beautiful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pius Amor

Enjolras felt the sun rise over the streets of Paris, and into their bedroom when he began to rise to consciousness. 

One of the first Saturdays of spring, and it was optimistic for Paris, as the cold had finally seeped away to be replaced by the lightness of air, that so many longed for. 

The city had begun to wake up, with the sweet smell of the bread and other treats that were being baked in the boulangerie across the street, beginning to infect the air.

Enjolras was protected from the early morning chill by the ridiculously expensive sheets that Grantaire insisted on, and the man himself, whose limbs were entwined with Enjolras’ own. 

Enjolras stretched languidly, trying not to disturb the other man sleeping peacefully, and attempted to chase away the drowsiness. 

Luckily enough neither of them had to do anything particular today, with Grantaire finished with his most recent commission, and Enjolras was ahead, having written and edited a massive pile of articles for the newspaper the night before. 

Enjolras relaxed, enjoying the opportunity to sleep in for once, and turned his gaze from the window to the man beside him.

He could see flecks of paint on his hands that were wrapped around Enjolras’ waist; it was one of his favourite things about the artist. His shameless inability to keep the paint on the canvas because he was so caught up in his work had caused many difficult to remove stains in their apartment, but Enjolras was so fond of his passion he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Grantaire’s head of messy black curls were splayed over the pillow, which contrasted sharply with the cream coloured linen. Enjolras smoothed his hand over his forehead softly to get a better look at his face.

It wasn’t often that Enjolras was awake before Grantaire, contrary to popular belief he tended to sleep in for as long as possible, work permitting, so he took the opportunity to watch Grantaire’s sleeping face, as he breathed in and out slowly. 

His pale eyelids were lined with black eyelashes that were longer than they had any right to be, Enjolras thought. They covered up his distinctive, sharp blue eyes, which Enjolras loved dearly. 

Three days worth of stubble lined his jaw, though Enjolras loved it went he didn’t shave, both because of the feeling of the scruff against his neck, and because it was so innately Grantaire. 

His face didn’t really look younger when he slept like most people, it simply looked peaceful, in ways that it never was when he was awake.

Grantaire had a very expressive face, to his own dismay and his friends’ delight, especially when playing one of their frequent games of poker that Bahorel and Courfeyrac had coerced them all into. 

Enjolras was almost thrown by Grantaire’s unique features and how they arranged themselves so perfectly in the morning sun, that Enjolras had never felt so enamored. 

Grantaire’s eyes began to flutter open, as Enjolras ran his fingers through his wild curls, and Enjolras leaned in to pressed small kisses to his sleepy eyelids, leading down to the defined angle of his jaw, and to his neck.

Grantaire grumbled and pulled their chests together, and Enjolras loved him.

“Good morning.” He whispered into his collarbone.

Grantaire smiled so openly and with so much warmth, Enjolras’ breath stuttered. 

“It’s early.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Grantaire blushed deeply, and Enjolras brought him in to kiss him gently on his slightly chapped lips. Grantaire immediately deepened the kiss and brought one of his hands into Enjolras’ golden waves and gently squeezed his ass with the other.

Enjolras laughed and Grantaire grinned; “Well now I’m awake”

“You have atrocious bedhead”

“You should see yourself” Grantaire scoffed, “you look like a blonde wookie.”

Enjolras snorted and rolled himself on top of the artist.

“There’s a curl right here” Enjolras said pressing his hand into the curl by Grantaire’s ear, “it always sticks straight out, no matter what you do to it. I don’t think I’ve told you how much I love it.”

“You haven’t” Grantaire murmured, 

“I on the other hand, have most definitely waxed so poetically Jehan would be proud, about the freckles across your nose, the space where your neck meets your collarbone, and the one place down there that always makes you-“

Enjolras cut him off with the insistent press of his mouth. 

“Tell me again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks!
> 
> Some might recognize the bits towards the end, influenced by Madeline Miller's A Song of Achilles, which I strongly recommend.
> 
> Tumblr: carlythegreat.tumblr.com


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